


Eyes For The Blind

by subtropicalStenella



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Come Eating, Depression, F/M, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Recovery, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: He's adapting.





	Eyes For The Blind

She finds him sitting on the rag rug next to the refresher, towel around his hips, hair half dried, elbows on his upraised knees like his legs gave out and he doesn't particularly care enough to get up yet. Still, his empty gaze goes to her when she closes the door behind herself.

 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Sorry, I'll be out in a minute, I just…”

“Bad day?”

“Started out good,” he mutters.

“I saw the mask Sabine made you,” she says, rubbing at her upper arms. “She gave you jaig eyes.”

“For the blind man. It's cute,” he says, with a bitter twist of his mouth that isn't a smile.

“It's  _ practical _ ,” she snaps, fists going to her hips. “We both know your blink reflex is shot to shit from the muscle damage and getting something in your eyes will be distractingly painful even now. She's trying to  _ help _ .”

“I know.”

“More importantly, it's how they mark their  _ heroes.  _ At least Rex qualified for his by blood  _ and  _ valor, not only are you--whatsit,  _ aruetii,  _ you're a  _ Jedi,”  _ she continues, irrationally angry. “And she  _ still  _ considers you worthy of the highest honor she knows.”

_ “I know,”  _ he growls back, and it's good to see…  _ something _ out of him, however brief it was before he subsides back into himself. “I just… I'm having trouble believing it myself.”

“Well  _ she  _ does, and it's important to her, so you--”

“ _ I know _ , damn it,” he snarls, actually  _ snarls _ , glaring at her--actually at her face, instead of slightly too low--though the anger drains out of him again, like something saps the energy away. “That's why I'm in here.” 

He runs a hand over his face, several weeks of scraggly beard rasping under his palm. 

 

“Thought I'd try and clean up a bit, try and at least  _ look _ like myself…”

He trails off, scratching vaguely around the longer hair that had been his neat goatee. “But I can't even do that.” 

 

No, he couldn't, could he? He wouldn't be able to judge the styling by touch, at least not yet, and a haphazard, uneven attempt might make things worse. She sighs, softening, frustration falling out of her as she sits next to him, leaning against his side. He's  _ trying. _

 

“I kinda like it,” she tells him, and he might actually smile when he snorts and says,

“Of course you do, I'm half kath hound as far as you're concerned. More fur for you to play with.”

“Aren't you though?” she teases, and reaches up to scritch under his chin, along his jaw. 

 

He leans into it, and, after a moment, obligingly drums a heel against the floor until she laughs and he leans a little harder against her side. 

 

“Sabine's been wanting you to grow a beard since she found out you were a Jedi anyway,” she reminds him, and he huffs an amused breath out his nose, resting his head sideways on hers. “She thinks your goatee makes you look like an asshole.”

“It's a very carefully cultivated aesthetic and she knows it,” he argues defensively, and rubs his hand over his beard again. “Though I suppose I qualify for one now, with Ezra.”

“You do,” she tells him, and then tugs on the long tangled bits on his chin. “Though right now your  _ aesthetic  _ is Sad, Possibly Crazy Hermit, not Master Jedi. Where's the clippers? I'll clean it up for you.”

 

He gestures, and the clippers jump into his hand. She refrains from commenting on how he didn't need to  _ see _ to do that. 

 

“Sabine will throw a fit if she finds out you're taking over her duties as resident hair stylist,” he warns, but hands them over anyway. Hair, especially Kanan's, was a  _ thing  _ for Sabine. Her own, obviously, but the revelation that Kanan previously considered hacking the end of his ponytail off with the nearest available knife a “haircut” had so offended Sabine that she  _ demanded  _ he let her fix it, and that had finally broken the defensive, paranoid cultural ice between the rogue Jedi and disgraced Mandalorian. It had become a sort of bonding ritual, but…

“I think she'll forgive me this once,” she says, and reaches up to pull the case down from the sink herself, knocking his knees aside until she can kneel over his lap. It takes a minute to rummage the longest guard out of the bag. Sabine had  _ some _ kind of system that made sense only to her--something that only allowed for odd-numbered clipper guard sizes, among other things, like breaking half the teeth out of #1 for “texture”--but she's not exactly going for a  _ style  _ now.

Right now, she's just evening everything out, using the teeth of the guard like a comb and making his beard look intentional, rather than the product of neglect. It actually does look good on him, by the end, when his ruined eyes have drifted closed and he's relaxed under her, his hands resting lightly on her hips. She tries not to think about how long it's been since he's touched her at all, since they've been this close without him pulling away. He leans into her hands again when she runs her fingers through the results, bits of hair raining down when she scratches along his jawline. 

 

“Much better,” she says, tilting his head from side to side. “Pretty sure I got it even.”

“Except now I need another shower,” he says ruefully, reaching up to itch at his chest and the loose clippings that have gotten trapped in the hair  _ there.  _ “You should join me.”

“You and I both know you don't need help with that,” she says, and carefully bumps her forehead into his. Not to avoid the still-tender scarring, but because he's been so hesitant with affection lately, like he doesn't deserve it.

“I don't want help,” he tells her softly, pushing back so his nose touches hers. “I want  _ you. _ ” 

 

_ Oh. _

 

She's not sure which of them slants their head to kiss the other first, but it's largely irrelevant, because it seems to unlock something in him, his hand coming up to curve under her lek as he kisses her. His other arm wraps abruptly around her waist, pulling her against his chest as he deepens the kiss and easily, deftly undoes the fastenings on her headcover, pulling it smoothly down her lekku. 

 

Oh, oh  _ of course _ , that's all muscle memory, he's never needed to  _ see _ to do that, to kiss her, his eyes were almost always closed  _ anyway.  _

 

He doesn't need to see if she cups his face in her hands and keeps kissing him, nips at his lips and tongue, lets his new moustache rub against her mouth. It's  _ different _ and it's… surprisingly nice and it's  _ Kanan _ , and she's loathe to stop kissing him long enough for him to drag her shirt off over her head. He doesn't need help with her bra either, and flinging it across the room with a complete disregard for where it lands (in the sink) is  _ very  _ Old Kanan.

So is the way he drags his kisses down her throat, her sternum, the softness of her stomach as she stands up, kicks off her boots and skins off her pants and underwear.

And the way he automatically catches her, steadies her with a smile--a real smile--against her skin and his hands spanning her waist when she stumbles over the tangle of her clothes and his legs and his towel that is starting to come undone.

Pulling him up to his feet, back up to kiss her lips again, feels natural, easy, the same as his arms wrapping around her waist again. For a moment she just does the same, holds him close and kisses him until he breaks off with a sigh. Not to pull away, not this time, just to rest his chin on top of her head, which is very sweet, but would be more so if his erection weren't pressing against her stomach. 

 

“Hi there,” she says smugly, wiggles her hips a bit.

“Hi.”

“You said something about a shower?” 

“I did.” 

“Still want to do that?”

“I can do both.” 

“Ezra?”

“Out with Zeb.”

“Good. My settings, not going to let you boil me alive again.”

“Wimp.”

 

She reaches past him to slap the controls over, saying, “I’m not  _ supposed _ to turn red--” without thinking, and breaking off with a wince she's alternately glad he can't see and guilty about it.

 

“Nah, you barely warm up to yellow,” he replies, like it's nothing, like he hadn't told her before that he’s terrified he will forget the color of her skin, her eyes, her markings. 

 

She reaches up to cup his face again, kiss him, push him back inside the refresher. If she does that, if he keeps his eyes closed, it almost feels normal. 

 

If he doesn't think about it, he'll be okay.

 

He seems to feel the same, turning them in the tiny space to crowd her back against the cold wall tiles with his mouth on hers. He pulls her lekku forward over her shoulders, stroking slowly down their length, and then following the water down her sides with his hands. His fingers curve around and under her ass to pull her hips against his with a soft, hungry sound as his cock slides over her stomach.

At least until she hooks her hand under his jaw again and turns his face into the water, making him splutter. 

 

“Clean first,” she says, grinning as he instinctively scrubs water out of his empty eyes, off his face. “Your face is itchy enough as it is.”

“Yes ma'am,” he says, scrapes his fingers repeatedly through the short, thick hair and then tilts his head at her. “Better?” 

 

The rest of the stray bits have already been sluiced away, but she scratches her fingers over his chest and through the soft hair there anyway, because she wants to, and farther down past the bit of his stomach without any before his  _ spacetrail  _ starts just above his navel. She snickers inwardly at the ridiculous phrase like always--Humans, honestly--and goes up on her toes to kiss him so he can feel her smile. 

 

“Yes.”  _ Much. _ So much better, and she doesn't mean the washed-away bits of hair. Hopefully he knows that.

 

He knows enough to kiss her again, hands going to her hips. One slides up to cup her breast, the other slipping down between her legs, the very tips of his fingers rubbing lightly over her first jil until she moans into his mouth, clings to his upper arms with both hands. He works slowly, carefully, not as if he were unsure, but as though he wishes to be thorough.

And he  _ is _ , he's never needed to see to do this either, to work his fingertips into her slit and over her jil in just the right way to make her shiver and sigh against his lips, into his temple as he moves down her chin, over her throat. Her hands go to his face, thread into his hair as he trails more kisses over her collarbones, down her chest, along the curve of her last ribs, her stomach as he slowly, smoothly sinks to his knees.

His beard leaves faintly stinging, dark scrapes all the way down. He'll leave more between her legs, he always has, and part of her has always loved it. He might not be able to hear the soft, wet sounds of her lekku curling over her chest over the water falling down his back, but he  _ will _ hear his name echoing softly off the wet tiles, feel her fingers twisting into his hair when his push deeply into her slit, when he licks and sucks warmly over her jil. She shifts a bit, eagerly widening her stance, spreading her legs for him, and he automatically drops one shoulder, hooking his hand under her knee to pull her thigh over his shoulder.

His free hand flattens over her stomach long enough to steady her, then moves down to join his other hand, petting her sex, following the edges of her slit around his knuckles before he pulls his fingers out entirely. Her soft, broken whine at the loss is soothed by those same slick fingers sliding back over her second jil, circling slowly, those circles widening, one finger pressing carefully against and then  _ slowly _ into her ass.

He strokes into her in time with the movement of his lips, his tongue on her jil, sliding along her slit, and slowly begins pushing the first three fingers of his other hand into her slit, one by one. Each one pulls another moan from her, the stretch and fullness of his fingers in both her holes pressing her sensitive second jil between them, moreso when he adds another to her ass. Her hands curve around his skull, keeping his mouth pressed against her, keeping the heat of his tongue working over her jil and his long, strong fingers inside her until she comes with a shuddering wail and the only thing holding her upright is  _ him.  _ He could pull free, his fingers won't get stuck in the soft, pulsing tightness of her slit when she comes the way other parts of him can, but he stays where he is, lets her ride out her aftershocks on his hand, leaving gentle kisses on the inside of her wet thighs. He might even be deliberately rubbing the new roughness on his cheeks against the tender skin there.

It seems nonsensical at first, he wouldn't be able to see the friction burns, but then… he  _ would  _ be able to feel the faint difference in the abraded skin next time he does this. The way he lets the far more texturally sensitive skin of his lips caress the marks afterwards suggests she's right, and that there  _ will  _ be a next time. 

 

That he's adapting.

 

She pulls him up to his feet, her hands cupping his jaw, fingers raking through his beard and then down his chest as she kisses him. His breath catches in his throat when her hands continue down, when she curls her fingers around the thick, hot length of his cock. She strokes him slowly, slow pressure to expose the head completely, rubbing her thumb over his slit. He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the tile around and above her head, kisses her deeply with her lekku draped over her arms. Her hands don't slide as easily over his wet skin as she would like, but he seems to want only her hands, shifting away when she moves to draw him between her legs.

Small steps, she supposes, or perhaps he just genuinely wants her hands. Enough that he buries his face in the curve of her neck, under her lek, when she slicks them with the stuff Sabine makes him use on his hair to keep it soft. He ends up rutting against her stomach even with both her hands wrapped around him, rolling his hips into hers with his breath hot on her throat. She leans her head against his, kisses his cheek, his temple, works her hands over him. It doesn't take much for him to come undone, fucking her fists with her fingers stroking down and around his length, palms rubbing against the head until he sighs her name into her skin and spills over her knuckles onto her stomach. 

She leaves more kisses on his cheek, nudges him a bit with hers as she reaches around and behind him to let the hot-to-her, warm-to-him water rinse her hands clean. He grunts a bit, still leaning against her and the wall.

 

“Are you alright, love?”

“Dizzy.”

“That good, or did you forget to eat again?”

“If I say 'both’ do I get a pass on the not-eating thing?”

“ _ No.” _

“It's both anyway,” he says, and kisses her shoulder despite her irritated groan.

“You  _ will  _ eat,” she tells him firmly, and lets her arms settle gently around his waist. “In fact, you're going to cook, it's about time you took your turn again.”

“You're taking advantage of the fact that I am  _ very  _ agreeable when I'm post-coital.”

 

Yes, but she's also feeling pleasantly magnanimous herself. “You can have Sabine or Zeb assist.”

 

Because Ezra was still avoiding him, but that was a problem for another day. 

 

“Alright,” he sighs fondly, kisses her shoulder again and then her mouth, bumping his forehead against hers after. “Suppose you actually want that shower, now,” he says, trails his fingertips down her stomach, through the thick streaks of white cum. Enough to lick off his fingers, a strangely twi'leki ritual of his.

“That would be nice, yes,” she teases, kisses his nose. “I want meiloorun-and-rice salad.”

  
He was surprisingly good at dicing things, either he subconsciously registered the danger of the knife near his fingers or he was just that good with his hands. He, naturally, would claim the latter with a sly smile. Eventually. For now, she's just happy to see him smile at all.


End file.
